


Of Tolling Bell I ask the cause?

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: American Civil War, Angst, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Late Night Conversations, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-09-30 19:26:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10170122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: She'd heard it on the street, men talking and not thinking who might listen.





	

“Did you love him very much?” Henry asked quietly. 

Frank would not have asked her that question, if he had been the one lying beside her in bed with the darkness hovering over them like a breath to draw in. She thought Frank would not have observed any change in her face if she worked to conceal it, if she served him his favorite meal with her own two hands, turning the pages of her book without reading. He hadn’t noticed when she had shivered in his arms or when his touch failed to stir her; he hadn’t considered her as anything more than an armful of prettiness, the memory of childhood escapades, the source of praise and a Southern woman’s gentle, indulgent scolding that never saved any man from himself. Henry knew to wait for her answer, just as he’d known she’d had word today-- _poor Stringfellow, Chancellorsville_ from the stricken expression Frank would not have seen behind her dropped lashes. Henry had brought her paisley shawl though the night was not cold and had handed it to her rather than wrapping it around her shoulders himself. She felt his body beside hers, the healthy, warm wholeness of him, but he hadn’t put his hand on her hip or stroked her arm; her unplaited hair was a veil between them he did not try to rend. She tasted the tears he had not remarked upon on her lips and felt how they collected at her temples, matting the wispy tendrils. She had not wept enough to make her throat tight, her voice would not hold the tension of sobs she had swallowed back. Emma turned to her husband and laid a hand on his chest, where his heart beat and beat, and saw how the little light of the night still clung to his face, the bridge of his nose, his eyes that were blue, but never like the sky, only water—the river, the bay, the sea. 

“Once,” she said and put her head where her hand had been and listened to forever.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a little ficlet that *could* be part of Season 3 and if we don't get one, it serves as a possible glimpse of the future. The title is from Emily Dickinson.


End file.
